


The Fourth Case (1876)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Murder, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Vamberry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Case 4: One of four cases of wine goes missing – is someone trying to blacken a wine-merchant's good name, or is it something more sinister?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitt3nz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitt3nz/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as the case concerning Mr. Vamberry, the wine-merchant.

Montague Street today may seem to be an unlikely setting for someone seeking basic accommodation in our capital city. It runs for but a few hundred yards, from Russell Square in the north to Great Russell Street in the south, its western side now dominated by the ever-expanding British Museum. During our time there however, there were still several private houses at the Great Russell Street end, opposite our own house (whose number, of course, I shall not reveal for the sake of its present owners). Our landlady for those two happy years, the estimable Mrs. Aliana MacAndrew, had inherited her property from a distant cousin and, following the passing of her husband, had decided to live in a small part of it and rent out the remainder. She had been there some two decades before our arrival, and even though our stay there was cut short, I look back on the time with fondness. My first real home.

+~+~+

'I know that I am not the easiest person in the world to get along with'.

Hah! 'Not the easiest?' Holmes was impossible! Tidiness seemed to be a concept unknown to him, and our room quickly took on the same sort of tornado-afflicted appearance as his half of Stamford's room back at Bargate. And worse, he always appeared so distracted that I did not like to raise the minor issue of not being able to cross the main room without risking severe injury!

The lodgings in Montague Street were small to the point of being cramped – my bedroom was almost fifty per cent bed! - although the disaster area that was the main room was just about adequate. It at least had the benefit of being within walking distance of the surgery, which with my limited income was very welcome, and I particularly enjoyed the hearty meals that Mrs. MacAndrew laid on for us. She expressed to me the opinion that my friend looked severely undernourished ('braw skinny as a rake' were her exact words), and seemed determine to put some flesh on those bones. Holmes was actually taller than average if an inch and a half shorter than myself, but always managed to carry himself in such a way as to seem short. 

Like all 'unattached' doctors of the time, I split my time between my practice work and attending people who called at the house, usually by going to their homes. Our house was in a middle-class area, but to the north lay the slums of St. Pancras, whilst to the south was the gentle bustle of Covent Garden (I quickly learnt that the apparent wealth or not of my potential patient was absolutely no indication of their readiness to pay their bills when due). I was therefore out for much of the day, and was perhaps not the best company when I returned, tired and footsore. Yet Holmes was always there waiting for me, and I increasingly wondered just what he actually did all day. Of course he did not need to work, with his family situation, but did he not become bored?

One of the most frequent visitors to Montague Street was a tall, muscular-looking dark-skinned gentleman, bald but with one of these terrible 'goaty' beards that were occasionally for some reason thought fashionable (Sammy had gone through a short period when he too had thought that one such atrocity made him look older and wiser, but the wholesale derision that he had been subjected to by the village girls had soon made him shave it off). I noticed too that this man spoke with a slight foreign accent when we exchanged greetings a few times in the hallway. One such time was when I returned from my rounds in late September, so when I mounted to our room, I mentioned his presence to Holmes.

“That is Sergeant Victor Henriksen, from the local station”, he explained, without looking up from his book. “He comes from Curaçao in the Dutch West Indies, and spent some time in New York before moving to London. A most intelligent man; he should go far provided his superiors rate intelligence above skin colour. Fortunately his immediate boss is Inspector Fraser Macdonald, who is fair-minded enough to hate all of Mankind equally. ”

“What was the sergeant doing here?” I asked, curiously.

“He wished to consult me on a case.”

“Consult you?” I said incredulously. Perhaps a little too incredulously; Holmes actually looked up from his book and raised an eyebrow at me.

“I _am_ a consulting detective”, he said a little plaintively, as if that was something I should have known. 

“So you solve crimes for a living?” I asked, interestedly. Of course I knew he was smart enough to do that, but doing it as a livelihood seemed... odd.

“Indeed”, he said, seemingly thinking the discussion at an end as he returned to his book.

“Do you go out and find clues?” I asked eagerly.

He glanced up from his book, the look on his face suggesting that he was seriously doubting my sanity.

“I am not a bloodhound to go chasing down the criminals”, he said loftily. “People like Henriksen bring their problems to me, and I think about them before telling them the answer.”

“That is impossible!” I said hotly. “You cannot solve crimes by merely sitting in your chair and thinking about it!”

He looked at me consideringly for a moment. I felt, for neither the first nor the last time, that those impossible blue eyes could see all the way down to my very soul.

“You have a new patient, who is more than well-off”, he observed. “They live some distance from here. The man, or possibly his wife, is miserly, and they keep a poor class of servant. They paid cash, and they possess at least one cat.”

I stared at him in astonishment. 

“Who told you that?” I demanded. He had almost perfectly described the rather unpleasant Madeley family, whose hypochondriac of a daughter I had attended earlier that day.

“Your trousers, to start with”, he replied to my utter confusion. I sat down opposite him.

“Explain”, I demanded, then added a “please” at his raised eyebrow. He sighed, and finally put down his book.

“You wore your best trousers, and had them pressed before you left this morning”, he explained. “You only do that when you are attending one of your richer patients. You took that useful little brush you borrowed from our estimable landlady, the one that removes cat hair most effectively. And your eyes are still red, as you do not respond well to the presence of a feline in your vicinity.”

“And the miserliness?” I asked.

“All the best houses have gas-lighting now, but your hat shows a tallow mark that was not there this morning”, he said. “Thus, despite their wealth, they have chosen not to spend money updating their lighting, plus their servants were careless with your property. Also, you only take a cab when you can afford it. It is raining slightly, yet the coat you hung up is almost dry. Therefore you took a cab home, and since you left your wallet behind this morning in a fit of absent-mindedness, they paid cash.”

It seemed annoyingly obvious when he explained it that way. 

“What did the sergeant want?” I asked. “A new case for you?”

“Not exactly”, Holmes frowned. “He came mainly to tell me some developments concerning a murder inquiry I was assisting him with.”

“And did you identify the murderer?” I asked.

“Not yet”, Holmes admitted with what I thought was more than a shade of reluctance. 

“Oh.”

Holmes hesitated.

“The sergeant did have another small matter that he thought might interest me”, he said. “Quite fitting, really.”

“Fitting?” I asked. “How, pray?”

“Well bearing in mind you have been in on three of my cases already, this one seems singularly appropriate”, he almost smiled. “It is the Case of the Fourth Case!”

I looked at him in confusion.

“It is a very small thing”, Holmes said, “but the person who stands to be affected by the case if it is not cleared up is a friend of Sergeant Henriksen. It is probably nothing, but I have a nose for these things. I may even have to leave the house and make some Inquiries.”

I smiled inwardly at his put-upon tone.

“The facts are, on the surface, few and simple”, Holmes went on, his placing his bookmark in his book and putting it to one side, indicating his apparent willingness to talk. “The sergeant's friend is one Mr. Martin Vamberry, a wine-merchant based in the docks. He supplies beer and wine, mostly the latter, to a number of public houses and private clubs in the eastern half of the city. His business had been doing very well, which is why this may be serious.”

“Serious?” I asked. “How?”

“Yesterday morning, he sent out his deliveries on his two carts as per usual”, Holmes said. “Everything seemed in order until that evening, when a Mr. Thomas Wilberforce, the owner of the Elephant and Castle public house in King's Cross, called round, claiming that he had only received three of the four cases of wine that he had paid for. Mr. Vamberry checked his warehouse, but could not find the missing case. To placate his customer, he arranged for one of his men to take round a case of superior quality wine that same evening.”

“It all seems rather dull”, I said. “Probably someone made a mistake when doing the order, or something?”

Holmes looked at me patiently.

“You do not appreciate the seriousness of this case”, he said firmly. “For someone in Mr. Vamberry's position, his reputation is all-important. If it were bruted about that he were less than honest, he could lose everything.”

“It is hardly murder”, I muttered.

“Murder of a man's reputation”, Holmes said firmly. “Besides, I do not take cases based on their seriousness, or for that matter the wealth of those affected. I take them on whether or not they are interesting. This one, I suspect, may be.

I felt rebuked, though also a sneaking admiration that he did not show any preference for those with more money. Too many people did, these days.

“Perhaps the pub owner was lying?” I suggested.

“For one case containing just six bottles?” Holmes queried. “Henriksen said that they only deliver an order of three to five cases every few months to that establishment. And it was not even the most expensive of the cases requested.”

“What about the delivery men?” I asked.

“Two local men, Mr. Frederick Thornton and Mr. Mark Allendale. Both decent workers with no real black marks against them; Allendale is something of an alcoholic, but his tastes run to beer, not wine. The landlord was absent at the time of the delivery, so they left the three cases inside the lock-up in the back and raised the marker to show they had been. They delivered at around six-thirty in the morning; the landlord's wife came out and took the cases in shortly after nine.”

“The men did not know that there should have been four cases?” I asked.

“The system, according to Mr. Vamberry's statement, is that the supervisor marks the boxes according to the order of delivery”, Holmes explained. “He is certain he marked four boxes with a number '1' the night before – it was the first delivery of the day – but the men only found three at the back of the cart. The cart itself was subsequently searched, but nothing was found.”

“Who is the supervisor?” I asked.

“A Mr. William Thornton, brother to the delivery man of the same name. He is a rather more interesting character than his brother, as he had a connection to the sergeant's murder case, being one of several people who owed the dead man money. However, he stayed late at the warehouse doing inventory – there were witnesses – and did not leave until ten o'clock, whilst the murder happened between eight and nine. The medical evidence for the latter is quite definite.”

“Then it is all very strange”, I observed.

“Indeed”, Holmes said crisply. “In the circumstances, I think it advisable for me to pay a visit to the Vamberry warehouse. Would you like to accompany me?”

I was surprised at his offer, but gladly accepted, and we fixed for an early departure the following morning,

+~+~+

The warehouse was in one of the less salubrious areas of the docks (and that was saying something!). We went inside a cavernous building, in which two large carts were being laden with boxes. A thin, unkempt fair-headed man in his forties stood between them, checking off items on a clipboard, and spared us a dark look. 

“Mr. William Thornton”, Holmes observed quietly. “Not the most pleasant of characters, according to Henriksen. We will go straight to Mr. Vamberry's offices.”

We handed our card to the secretary, who took it in. She had barely returned when the door burst open and a tall blond man burst through, having to duck his head to avoid hitting the lintel. He scowled at both of us before striding quickly away. A similar-looking man appeared in the doorway, and sighed heavily.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson”, he said, bowing courteously. “Martin Vamberry, at your service. Victor says that you may be able to help me.”

He escorted us into his inner sanctum, a small stuffy room with only a narrow and dirty ventilation window on one side. He waited for us both to sit before taking his chair.

“I shall certain try to help you, Mr. Vamberry”, Holmes said, his voice much warmer than usual, I noted. “Sergeant Henriksen was kind enough to provide me with some of the facts of the case, and I decided that viewing the _mise en scène_ might be beneficial to my understanding of the events that transpired. May I inquire as to the identity of the gentleman leaving in such a hurry?”

Mr. Vamberry sighed in a put-upon way.

“My brother Pieter”, he said, sounding almost bitter. “My mother wanted the three of us to run the company jointly, but she died giving birth to our other brother Benedikt, and my father rapidly discerned that Pieter had little or no head for business. When Father moved back to the Netherlands, I got the business and they each got a generous sum of money. Pieter has spent his way through his inheritance, and is now demanding his 'rightful' share of the business. As you probably saw, he did not take the iteration of my refusal at all well.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow.

“Are you the sole owner?” he asked.

“No”, Mr. Vamberry said. “When I expanded to this place, I had to turn over seventy-five per cent of the business in shares to various banks and lenders. We are doing well enough, but any sort of bad publicity would do us great harm. That is why one mis-placed case of wine is so important.”

“Mis-placed?” I asked, curiously.

“Yes”, Mr. Vamberry said “It was found at the back of the warehouse this morning, under a tarpaulin. I have no idea how it got there. I have sent it round as an extra case to Mr. Wilberforce, the tavern owner who we inadvertently short-changed, as an additional apology. But I am fearful that, however the error occurred, it may happen again, further tarnishing my good name.”

“Did you check the case first?” Holmes asked.

Mr. Vamberry looked puzzled.

“Yes, I opened it”, he said, “and I also checked the code on the side of the box. I cannot see any problem with that.”

Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment.

“Is it fair to say, then, that it would be in your brother's interests to damage the business slightly, so as to make your creditors nervous?” Holmes asked.

Mr. Vamberry looked shocked at the idea but, I noticed, did not deny it. Holmes looked around the room.

“Is this where Mr. William Thornton was working on the night of the murder?” he asked.

The wine-merchant seemed to shake himself back to reality.

“Yes”, he said. “And the only way out, as you have seen, is through the main warehouse.”

“They might have been too busy to spot him leaving?” I suggested.

Mr. Vamberry shook his head,

“The men are entitled to a thirty-minute break each, which they take in turns between eight and half-nine”, he explained. “Because the warehouse is so cold, they always come into the outer office, where my secretary works during the day, then light the fire and play cards there. I do not mind, provided they do not enter the inner office. And as you can see, there is no way anyone, not even someone as thin as Mr. Thornton, could possibly fit through that window.”

“Did anyone see him actually leave?” Holmes asked.

“Yes”, Mr. Vamberry said. “The local policeman saw him coming out of the door just after ten. Mr. Thornton wears a rather distinctive hat, you see.”

Holmes was silent for some time, before speaking again. 

“When you sent out the replacement case on the evening in question”, he said, “who decided that Mr. Frederick Thornton would take it?”

“He did”, Mr. Vamberry said. “He was in my office reporting about the hunt for the lost case when Mr. Wilberforce burst in. The Thorntons live but a few streets away from the tavern, so it was not far out of his way.”

“I see”, Holmes said.

“I know it is none of my business”, Mr. Vamberry said nervously, “but after what the sergeant said, are you thinking that the missing case and that terrible murder are in some way related?”

Holmes squinted at him.

“One more question”, he said evasively. “Has anything else gone missing from the office of late?”

“No, sir.”

I was sure that there had been the slightest of hesitations before that denial. Holmes pounced on it.

“Cushions or pillows?” he asked.

I could not see what he was driving at, but the effect on the wine-merchant was electric. He went deathly pale.

“How... how could you know that?” he gasped.

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“It is my business to know things, sir”, he said. “We shall return with Sergeant Henriksen at nine this evening, when I hope to have this case wrapped up for you. You might also consider extending an invitation to Mr. Wilberforce to attend, as it was the theft of his property which led to this.”

He stood, bowed, and left. I scurried after him.

+~+~+

The cab-ride back to Montague Street was uneventful, but on arrival at our lodgings there we found a smart carriage drawn up outside. Holmes sighed in a put-upon way.

“My brother Mycroft has come to call”, he growled. “Damnation!”

I stared at him uncertainly.

“Do you need me there for support?” I ventured at last. “Or would you prefer me to take a walk for an hour or so?”

“The latter, unfortunately”, he said ruefully. “Mycroft is doubtless 'checking me out' either for himself or on Mother's orders. Most probably the former; I am quite sure Mother has already has the place thoroughly examined.”

Somehow that did not surprise me. I had not yet met Holmes' mother (and I did not realize then how fortunate that made me!), but I knew that she was a veritable force of nature. Mycroft, the eldest brother, had married not long back and had had two children, both daughters. I nodded to Holmes and set off towards Russell Square.

+~+~+

I sat in the park and read for about an hour before returning home, noting that Sherlock seemed annoyed at his brother's visit. Mrs. MacAndrew's delicious food worked its magic for both of us however, and I was able to function more or less as a human again by the time we left later that evening. After we had waited outside the warehouse for the best part of half an hour however, I was beginning to suspect that Sergeant Henriksen was not going to show. Fortunately he came hurrying along the quayside at that moment, panting heavily. 

“A stabbing in Soho”, he explained between gasps. “It was all hands on deck at the station.”

“Did you find the information I asked for?” Holmes asked. The sergeant regained his breath before answering.

“No connection”, he said, “but you were right about the debts. Still, you cannot think.....”

“We had better go in”, Holmes said. “Doubtless we have already kept poor Mr. Vamberry waiting far too long. Your men are coming later?”

“About five minutes behind me”, the sergeant said, now openly dubious, “but there is no....”

“Excellent!” Holmes exclaimed, before hustling through the door. I shared a look of exasperation with the sergeant before we both followed him inside.

+~+~+

I could not help but notice that Mr. Wilberforce, the landlord of the tavern in the case, looked distinctly uneasy at Sergeant Henriksen's arrival. Obviously my friend noticed it too.

“Be not afraid, Mr. Wilberforce”, he said. “I merely thought that you would like to understand how your missing case of wine ties into a murder.”

The man's face turned quite pale. I half-thought that he was going to faint.

“M... m.... murder, sir?” he squeaked. 

“Murder most foul”, Holmes said gravely. He turned to Mr. Vamberry, and bowed. “And sorry, I am to say it, sir, but the police will shortly be in your warehouse to arrest the brothers Thornton, one for murder and one for aiding and abetting. The penalty for both is, quite rightly, death by hanging.”

“Sir, that is impossible!” Mr. Vamberry stated firmly. “We have witnesses who will state on the Holy Bible that Mr. William Thornton never left that office.”

“I do hope not”, Holmes said gravely. “Perjury, even when unwitting, is a grave offence in the eyes of the law.”

The wine-merchant seemed to be trying to get some words out, but failed. Holmes sat down and stretched out his legs in front of him.

“I will tell you how it all came about”, he said. “First, the motive. Mr. William Thornton was in dire financial straits, which the sergeant has just confirmed to me. His only hope of relief was the death of the moneylender Mr. Berwick, which would have resulted in a delay before the debt could be transferred elsewhere. He knew, however, that as a known borrower he would immediately come under suspicion, so he arranged a most cunning alibi.”

“On the morning in question, Mr. William Thornton arrives early at work and hides one of the four cases of wine destined for the Elephant and Castle public house. The choice of your establishment, Mr. Wilberforce, was by no means accidental, as I will shortly explain. He then fudges the paperwork, knowing that he can rely on his brother to make sure that the missing case is not spotted. It is imperative that it is discovered only at the right time.”

“Why?” Mr. Vamberry asked. Holmes looked annoyed at the interruption.

“He does one other thing before everyone else arrives”, Holmes went on. “He knows that there are cushions, pillows and sheets in one of the outer office cupboards for when people work into the night. He takes a couple of cushions from the cupboard and hides them behind the couch in the inner office. The day then proceeds as planned, until Mr. Wilberforce, as expected, arrives at five o'clock and demands to know why he has been short-changed. Acting on the recommendation of Mr. William Thornton, you, Mr. Vamberry, agree to furnish him with a superior case of wine, which Mr. Frederick Thornton will deliver when he leaves in an hour's time.”

“How could you know that I would arrive here at five?” Mr. Wilberforce demanded indignantly. Holmes smiled knowingly.

“Your statement to the sergeant mentioned that you were returning from your sister's house, which you said is in Southend”, he explained. “You also stated that you visit there on the first full weekend every two months, and always combine these visits with business dealings which lead to your being away from the house at an early hour. You also said that you always take the same train back. I am sure that, some time in the recent past, you must have mentioned that to Mr. Frederick Thornton, which led to his fixing on you as a suitable victim. The Thorntons banked, correctly, on you realizing that you were a case short and coming round to demand restitution immediately upon your return.”

The innkeeper blushed.

“To continue”, Holmes said. “Witnesses reported that Mr. Frederick Thornton left with the extra case of wine just before six o'clock. That, of course, was untrue.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“What actually happened was that, before leaving, Mr. Frederick Thornton went to the main office”, Holmes said calmly. “His brother had a reputation for hating being disturbed, and always kept the door locked when he was working. Frederick Thornton was admitted to the room, and a few moments later, William Thornton left it, wearing his brother's coat. That in itself was unusual, as it was a hot day, yet the statements were that he had already buttoned his coat up. It was already dark outside, and outer office is poorly lit.”

“Hang on a minute there!” the sergeant put in. “I know the lighting is bad, but Mr. Frederick Thornton is about twice the girth of his brother. There is no way anyone could mistake those two.”

I gasped as I realized.

“The cushions!” I burst out.

Holmes beamed at me.

“Exactly”, he said. “Most annoyingly for William Thornton, no-one subsequently comes forward to state that they saw him leave – typically, one never gets a witness when one actually needs one! William Thornton takes the wine to the tavern – I believe you expressed annoyance, Mr. Wilberforce, that he left it at the door, though now you may understand why – then takes his gun, finds and shoots Mr. Berwick, and returns to the warehouse. Frederick Thornton remains behind a locked door – as well as providing his brother's seemingly ironclad alibi, he has to wait for the men taking the breaks in the warm outer room to conclude – then slips out unnoticed between half-nine and ten. I noticed, Henriksen, that in your case notes – excellently done as usual, by the way – you mentioned that there was a small explosion, possibly a firework going off, at about that time. I would wager that that was in fact a distraction caused by Mr. William Thornton so his brother could slip out. Our killer then waits until the local policeman happens by, and makes sure he is seen at the door by him, having established the perfect alibi. Everyone will swear that he never left the office until ten o'clock.” 

We were all stunned into silent admiration.

“I do not see why Mr. Frederick Thornton did not just commit the crime himself”, Mr. Wilberforce said eventually.

“Family matters”, Holmes said. “Mr. William Thornton did not wish his brother to kill for him, merely to cover up his own dark deeds. Unfortunately for both of them, the result will be the same.”

“What about proof?” the sergeant asked.

“Did you get Mr. William Thornton's coat?” Holmes asked.

“Yes”, the sergeant said, handing it over. Holmes held it up for critical examination. 

“He is as good as hung”, he said quietly.

“But how?” I asked. 

Holmes pointed to the front of the coat, where a faint orange stain could be made out.

“That is the same paint used to mark the deliveries”, he said, “a job Mr. William Thornton always avoids. The only way he could have got a mark like this is by carrying a case of wine for a considerable distance, something that, according to his story, he never did. And if you look even closer, sergeant, you may spot that there is a tiny fragment of wood lodged under one of the buttons. I would wager that that matches the wood of the fourth case.” 

There was a knock at the door, and the wine-merchant's secretary came in without being asked. She was clearly upset.

“Sir!” she blurted out. “The police have arrived, and they have arrested Mr. Thornton and his brother!”

I looked across at Holmes, and saw what was undeniably a smirk, before he schooled his features and looked innocently back at me. Damn, but he was good!

+~+~+

Our next case would take us to the bright lights of the Big Top.....


End file.
